Or, as they like to call ’em over here, pavements. Phil and I had an impromptu, very long, ramble about in Liverpool last night, and burgers (well, in my case, falafel), and it was just so nice. I forget how much I enjoy simply walking around aimlessly in a city with my sweetheart, maybe having a meal, and dropping into a pub or two along the way. We spend a lot of time on our holidays doing this, and while I am at least hypothetically very fond of nature and the bucolic charms of the countryside, what I really love best is hours-long walking in the city. I’m good at the solitary urban ramble, but accompanied by my other half? Perfect evening, right there.

Me, wandering about. I always forget how damn tall I am until I see a full-length photo of myself.

Liverpool is all lit up (heh, judging by the crowds last night, in more ways than one) and full of municipal holiday cheer, not to mention a Christmas market with all-too-easy access to glorious things to eat, like baklava and warm coconut macaroons, both of which I indulged in modestly last night. Given that it’s almost impossible to find the sweetened shredded coconut I think proper macaroons really require, I will be baking no macaroons this holiday season. I might, however, have a go at the baklava. Phyllo makes me nervous, not to mention the whole boiling syrup thing, but I want to try.

Church Street, Liverpool. Lit up.

And so, try I will, but I am so very glad Phil and I got a chance to just get the hell out and enjoy the lights and each other’s company, without any stress, without anybody else but the anonymous crowds around us, and with a break from the oncoming madness.

Metropolitan Cathedral of Christ the King, Liverpool. Also all lit up.

Not mad enough to reactivate my apparent involuntary life-time enrolment in the RCC, even though I do love this cathedral, and was very pleased to meander past it, on the most pleasant evening we’ve had locally lately.

Well, aside from some shopping and planning and general freaking out, I didn’t actually get stuck in and start cooking until last night. I made two jars of chutney for the tapas buffet (apple, mango) and I’m hoping to get some tomato chutney and onion confit done tonight. I’m also aiming to get the tomato sauce for my albóndigas done and in the freezer, although that may wait until tomorrow, as it can simmer away happily enough while I’m shovelling out Phil’s man cave. I want to get a batch of savoury/spicy cooking out of the way before I start the cookie and bread dough, to avoid contaminating my sugar cookies with pimentón. I may be contemplating putting some orange blossom and rosewater in my shortbread, but pimentón is a bit too avant garde for me. (Look at me gettin’ all fancy with the italics and accents there!)

Clementines mean Christmas! And this shot means Phil has a new flash to play with. Also, it had been a long, gale-filled day.

I came down with a case of botulism paranoia, and instead of just doing what I used to do when making jam and chutney-ish stuff, and putting blazing hot food into oven-sterilised jars, then sealing immediately, I bought a preserving rack and some lifting tongs, and water bath sterilised everything. This is how we canned (jarred?) stewed tomatoes when I was growing up, so I knew how to do it, but up until now, I’ve never felt the need, because I generally stick with jams, confits, and chutneys, and frankly, I’ve never read a British recipe for any of those things that called for the water bath. Instead, you get a much more laid-back “eh, sterilise the jars and seals, and don’t touch the insides when you’re potting up.” And I think they are probably right, and I’ve never had a poisoned or spoilt jar yet, but Google and the various USDA sources that land high on its searches feel VERY VERY STRONGLY that using anything but a water bath to preserve will kill you deader than hell.

Not-so-artistically-arranged, but still: clementines!

And I’d roll my eyes, and do it the way I always have, because I am a rebel, but I’m also feeding 20 other people who might not share my cavalier attitude, including elderly people in uncertain health, and youngish children, so a water bath it had to be. (And I’m probably going to store it in the fridge as well, because thanks for the paranoia, USDA.) It was a pain in the arse, but I did find the sound of the seals popping into place strangely satisfying.

And just this morning, the lowest string of lights burned out. Good thing we got a photo first!

Oh god, I have so much to do. I hypothetically love this sort of thing, and I love the feeling of satisfaction that I get after it’s all done, and I’m slumped in a chair, with only my husband and cat to witness my exhaustion and oh thank god it’s over exhilaration, and there are no more guests and only a pile of leftovers to feed us over the next few days, but actually getting there, well, it’s complicated.

(Written and wandered away from on 8 December. I want this published, so I can remind myself of what this all takes, if I’m ever tempted to do this again.)